The Rose of Tibet by Lionel Davidson

pasture; the fields sparkled with little wild flowers and their scent hung heavily on the air. They had cycled slowly, for Ringling had warned him not to extend himself too much. All the same he could feel the effect of the unusual exercise. He was sweating slightly, and glad of the liberating shorts and the light, short-sleeved bush jacket. He was also very hungry, with an appetite he had not had for weeks; the boy had said they would stop to eat in Sikkim.
    Ringling had been picking a large posy of flowers, for the benefit of any observer, but when they came to the timber he got rid of them. He did this in a curious and touching way that Houston was later to recall in very different circumstances. A little stream bisected the wood, and the boy knelt by it and cupped his hand in the water and sprinkled a few drops on his head and on the flowers; then he cast them into the stream. They were carried quickly away.
    Houston did not ask the reason for this performance, and the boy did not offer one. He merely got on his bicycle and rode across the stream.
    ‘We can eat now, sahib,’ he said at the other side.
    ‘Is this Sikkim?’
    ‘Yes. No more India, sahib.’
    Houston looked at his watch and saw it was a quarter to two. So with only the smallest of ceremonies he had crossed his first frontier. The date was 18 April 1950 , and he was not due to recross it again for a long time.
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    The wood extended quite deeply into Sikkim territory, and the boy stopped several times to consult his compass. They rode slowly and silently on pine cones. But presently the ground began to climb steeply and the trees grew denser. They got off and pushed, in single file.
    ‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Houston asked afterhalf an hour of this. He was breathing heavily and the sweat was smarting in the creases of his arms and legs.
    ‘Everything O.K., sahib,’ the boy said, grinning back over his shoulder. ‘Only a small hill. We come to the top soon and ride down. Very nice. You like it.’
    It was nearly another half hour before they reached the top; but as Ringling said, it was very nice and Houston liked it. The wood ended abruptly and a broad, smooth hill ran into a river valley. The river was quite two miles away; the turf sloped gently all the way. They coasted down to it, and Houston felt the sweat drying on his body in the cool breeze.
    They passed a flock of goats, but no sign of human habitation.
    ‘Aren’t there any people here?’
    ‘Yes, people.’
    ‘Where are they?’
    ‘Plenty of people, sahib. Even in the wood. We don’t stay long in Sikkim. How you feel now?’
    Houston had been aware earlier of the boy’s nervousness; it made him nervous too.
    ‘I’m all right. Why?’
    ‘We must cross the river. There are two ways. There is a bridge, but we might meet people, or there is a rope bridge. It’s much quicker, sahib, but the water is high and you are heavier than me. You think you’re strong enough?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Houston said, perplexed by these technical considerations. ‘What does it involve?’
    ‘There are two ropes. You walk along one and hang on to the other with your hands. You hold the bicycle also.’
    ‘Whatever you think. I’ll give it a try.’
    The valley, he saw when they were more than half-way down, was in effect a vast saucer; it sloped longitudinally as well as laterally. The river ran downhill fast. It was surprisingly wide, fifty yards at least across, the water white and foaming. They rode uphill along the bank for a mile or two until the river curved and narrowed sharply; the rope bridge spanned it at this point.
    They stopped and dismounted. The boy had to shout in his ear above the roar of the water. ‘Watch me, sahib. If you can’t manage, wave and I’ll come back.’
    ‘All right.’
    ‘I’ll take your bundle. It will lighten the weight.’
    Houston watched as the boy tied the bundle to his back and picked up the bicycle by the crossbar. With palms still